Theron’s POV
I've been working on it for weeks.
Stolen hours between chores. Trips to town for supplies I hid under tarps in my truck bed. Late nights when everyone else was asleep, sneaking out to hammer and paint and build something that might never be enough.
The old barn building behind the main house—the one we use for storage, half-collapsed and forgotten—has become my secret project. My gift.
My goodbye, maybe. I don't let myself think about that part too hard.
The morning after her performance, I wake early. Can't sleep anyway—haven't slept properly since the hospital, since she told me she loves us both, since I started understanding what that really means.
I watch the sunrise from the porch, coffee cooling in my hands, and make a decision.
It's time. Before I lose my nerve. Before she makes her choice and I lose the chance to give her this.
I find her in the kitchen, eating toast with one hand, flipping through her notebook with the other. Already working on new songs. Already becoming the person she was meant to be.
"Hey." I lean against the doorframe, trying to look casual when nothing about this feels casual. "Got something to show you."
She looks up, curious. "What kind of something?"
"The kind you have to see to believe." I hold out my hand. "Trust me?"
She takes it. Her fingers are warm, calloused now from guitar strings. I lead her across the yard, past the main barn, toward the old storage building she's probably never noticed.
My heart hammers with every step.
What if she hates it? What if it's not enough? What if nothing I do will ever be enough to compete with what Weston offers—the wounded intensity, the second-chance romance, the gravity of a man who lost everything and might be brave enough to risk it again?
Stop. I shut down the spiral. This isn't about winning. It was never about winning.
"Close your eyes," I say when we reach the door.
"Seriously?"
"Humor me."
She sighs but complies. I push open the door, guide her inside, position her in the center of the room.
"Okay. Look."
Her eyes open. Her gasp echoes off the walls.
The space has been transformed. Rough but beautiful—I'm not a craftsman, never claimed to be. Acoustic panels line the walls, salvaged from a studio in the next county that was going out of business. A secondhand piano sits in the corner, tuned and polished, the best I could afford. Recording equipment I spent three weeks researching—microphone, interface, monitors, all the things she'd need to capture what she creates.
A worn leather couch for writing. A rug to soften the concrete floor. Fairy lights strung across the exposed beams because she mentioned once that she liked the way they looked.
"Theron..." Her voice cracks. "What is this?"
"A studio. Your studio." I shove my hands in my pockets to hide their trembling. "For writing. Recording. Whatever you want."
She turns in a slow circle, taking it all in. Her hand covers her mouth. Tears stream down her cheeks.
"How did you—when did you—"
"Been working on it for a while. Since you found Elena's guitar, actually." I swallow hard. "Figured you'd need a place. Somewhere that's just yours. No audience. No performance. Just you and the music."
She moves toward the piano. Her fingers brush the keys, producing a soft chord that hangs in the dusty air.
Then she sees the note.
I left it propped against the music stand. Handwritten, because typed felt too impersonal for something this important. I watch her pick it up. Watch her eyes move across the words I spent three hours writing and rewriting.
Watch her break.
The note says: "You told me you wanted to be a musician. That was the first real thing you ever said to me. I don't know if you'll choose me. I don't know if these babies are mine. But I know you deserve a place where you can be loud and messy and completely yourself. No audience. No performance. Just you. — T"
She's sobbing now. Ugly, heaving sobs that shake her whole body. I go to her, wrap my arms around her, let her fall apart against my chest.
"Hey. It's okay. It's just a building. Some equipment. It's not—"
"It's everything." Her voice is muffled against my shirt. "It's everything, Theron. No one has ever—I've never had anyone who—"
She can't finish. I hold her tighter.
When the sobs finally quiet, she pulls back. Looks at me with red-rimmed eyes and a devastated expression that tells me everything I need to know.
"I knew you'd probably choose him."
The words come out before I can stop them. Quiet. Resigned. True.
She freezes. "What?"
"Weston." I force myself to meet her gaze. "He's the one with the tragic past. The wounded silence. The walls that make women want to climb them." My smile feels like broken glass. "I'm just the guy who makes you laugh. The fun brother. The one who's always there but never quite enough."
"Theron—"
"I'm not saying this to make you feel guilty." I cup her face in my hands, wiping tears with my thumbs. "I'm saying it because I need you to know—I see it. The way you look at him. The way you light up when he shows up instead of running. The way you're starting to lean toward him like gravity you can't fight."
My voice roughens. "And I'm okay with it. Or I will be. Eventually."
"How can you be okay with it?"
"Because I love you." Simple. True. The only thing I know for certain. "And loving someone means wanting them to be happy, even if that happiness isn't with you."
She's crying again. Silent tears this time, streaming down her cheeks.
"You're enough," she whispers. "You've always been enough."
"But not what you need." I kiss her forehead. Let my lips linger there for a long moment, memorizing the feel of her. "It's okay, Raven. Choose him. Choose the life you want. I'll still be here. Maybe not in the house, but close." I try for a smile. "Someone's got to teach those kids how to have fun."
She pulls me down into a kiss.
Desperate. Fierce. Tasting like tears and goodbye. I let myself have this—one last moment of pretending things could be different.
Then I gently pull away.
"Go find him," I say softly. "Tell him how you feel."
"Theron—"
"Go." I step back. Create distance before I lose my nerve. "I need to be alone for a bit anyway. Process all this emotional growth I'm apparently doing."
The joke falls flat, but she almost smiles. She squeezes my hand once—gratitude, apology, love all tangled together—and walks out of the studio I built for her.
I stand there for a long time after.
Surrounded by acoustic panels and fairy lights and the ghost of something that was never quite mine. The space feels bigger now. Emptier. Full of music that hasn't been made yet, by a woman who's walking toward another man.
Then I sit down at the piano.
Place my fingers on the keys.
And play for the first time in years—a sad, simple melody that sounds like letting go.
The notes echo off the walls I built for her. Each one a confession. Each one a goodbye.
I don't know how long I play. Don't care. The music pours out of me, all the things I couldn't say, all the feelings I've been hiding behind jokes and charm and easy smiles.
When I finally stop, my face is wet.
Huh. Didn't realize I was crying.
I wipe my cheeks with the back of my hand. Take a breath. And make myself a promise.
I'll be okay. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But eventually.
Because loving Raven—really loving her—means letting her go.
Even when it breaks me.